Don't worry, I'm a Doctor
by Time-Space-And-Stories
Summary: The Doctor is always concentrating on saving worlds and universes - but, in his spare time, he likes to save people, too. People who are lost. People who are damaged. People who wish they could just turn back time a little bit... but, of course, there's no such thing as time travel. Or is there? [Multiple fandoms - Marvel, Merlin, Sherlock, Star Wars, Harry Potter.]
1. Steve Rogers

**Hello!**

 **This is going to be a short collection of one shots, all of which featuring the Doctor (11th incarnation), and each having a protagonist from various fandoms; the Doctor is looking across the universes to help them, with his power of Time Travel and wackiness.**

 **Hope you enjoy reading!**

* * *

The room was dimly lit and practically silent – save for the harsh, repetitive smacks punctuating the air like gunshots.

The cause of the sounds stood barely feet away from the punch bag, sweat trickling the side of his face, with his head bowed in concentration towards his target. He shifted his feet, flexed his hand and prepared his aim once more… but something made him falter, his fist inches away from the still swinging bag.

Steve Rogers straightened, his eyes scanning the area for the source of the sound that had drifted to his attention. It grew louder at each passing second; it sounded mechanical, yet somehow like deep, ragged breaths…

A light breeze played at his hair – and the cause of such seemed to, _materialise_ , before Steve's very eyes.

A large, blue, police telephone box looked to be making its appearance in the middle of the gym. Steve's brow furrowed; it had his full attention.

"Tony… is that you?" A grin hitched up across Steve's face; Tony Stark and Bruce Banner got up to all sorts of things in their labs – he hoped they would be behind this kind of thing. Them or S.H.I.E.L.D., of course.

The box silenced (for that was what Steve assumed to be conjuring the noise), and for a moment Steve stood there, half expecting Tony or Bruce (or _someone_ ) to show their face.

At last, the door of the box opened with a creak; but the character of whom stepped out did little to trigger any recognition.

The stranger was a tall, young man, wearing a tweed jacket and black trousers; his hair was a dark, unkempt quiff, and the face to go with it was incredibly angular (and rather lacking in eyebrows, oddly). Yet, his expression bore a wide, childish grin, and the man's arms extended as he waved over towards Steve.

"Hello, Cap! It's been a while."

"Sorry, but – who _are_ you?"

"Just call me the Doctor," the strange man introduced. He sounded British.

"Doctor?" Steve repeated quizzically. His eyes darted to the box behind this so called 'Doctor'. "Your box says 'Police'."

"So it does," the man agreed with mild surprise; he lifted his brow. "It would seem I can't outsmart the great Captain America."

"Do I know you?"

"Not yet, no," the Doctor answered – a little unhelpfully, in Steve's opinion. "You don't seem overly surprised about a box appearing out of nowhere, or how a strange man managed to subsequently step out from it."

"I've seen a good few things in my time," Steve replied. "I'm kinda accustomed to surprises by this point."

The Doctor laughed. "Yes, well; that's very true," he muttered with a nod.

Steve inclined his head curiously to the side. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Earth? No."

"I meant America."

The Doctor faltered. "Ah."

"I guess it still answered the question… in a sense." Steve folded his arms and squared his shoulders, narrowing his eyes over at the Doctor. "What exactly have you come here for?"

At this, the Doctor's face lit up. He darted quickly over, to stand directly opposite Steve, and rubbed his hands together in excitement. "To take you, on a trip."

"A trip?" Steve was unconvinced. "Where? And, _why_?"

"I think 'when' would be a slightly more accurate question," the Doctor advised, "and as for why – well… you don't want to be late, do you?"

"Late for what," Steve asked, an impatient tone now lilted to his voice.

Whether the Doctor noticed this, Steve couldn't tell – if he did, then he simply ignored it. "A dance. _The_ dance. 8pm sharp. Remember?"

Steve frowned. He felt as though he had an idea as to where this was going, but was wary to speak his thoughts aloud.

"You don't want to keep Miss Carter waiting, do you?"

Steve froze. It wasn't simply the matter that this man was suggesting something impossible – it was how he'd got that information.

"How the hell did you know about that?"

The Doctor's beaming smile wavered. "…What?"

"That's private information!"

"Oh… yes, about that…"

Steve glared over towards the man, awaiting an explanation.

"You told me."

Steve halted; his suddenly erratic breathing shuddered to a sudden stop, and he frowned, confused. "No I didn't," he said carefully.

"Well – no – not now, you didn't," the Doctor explained. "A little later in your time."

Steve swallowed, trying to understand. "You realise you sound completely crazy, right?"

"Oh, but of course," the Doctor grinned. "Look, I'll explain on the way."

"On the way where?"

"Miss Carter! Your dance!"

"But that's impossible!" Steve retorted.

"For you, yes – but with me: not at all." The Doctor folded his arms. "I'll give it to you short – and you don't have to believe a single word, but I know what you've faced, I know what you've seen, and I'd expect for Steve Rogers to believe my story after all of that. Of course, there's also the advantage of seeing Peggy again."

"But… surely, that would mess up what's already happened in the past?"

"You're catching on," the Doctor praised. "But yeah, it'll probably not turn out too well… but then again, nothing ever really does. The problems of time travel, eh?"

Steve stared over towards the Doctor, who had spun around on his heel and was now striding over towards the blue box. "Did – did you say, time travel?"

"Well, we're not exactly going to get there by car, are we? Use your head, Steve."

"So, this box…?"

"Is a time machine, yes," the Doctor finished for him. "And she's absolutely brilliant. So don't be rude to her; otherwise we might not get to the right time or place…"

Steve's brow furrowed; he watched the Doctor push the door open to the box and step inside. He glanced warily around him. Was this really a good idea?

"Come on then," the Doctor encouraged, gesturing Steve over.

"One trip – and then, you can bring me back," Steve said. "Back here?"

"Almost definitely," the Doctor nodded.

"That 'almost' doesn't fill me with too much confidence," Steve muttered. He shrugged. "But alright." He made his way over; the Doctor stepped further within his ship and kept the door open for him.

Steve reached the front of the box, and peered inside.

"Bloody hell," Steve exclaimed.

"Language, Rogers: the Tardis doesn't appreciate it," the Doctor warned with a grin.

"Sorry," Steve whispered; a chorus of echoes sent the apology across the wide, rounded room, and the Tardis (as the Doctor said) hummed her thanks. "You know, it's usually me who says that," Steve said with a small smile.

"Close the door behind you," the Doctor requested; Steve did so as he walked on in. "So then," the Doctor exclaimed, with a grand wave of his arms. "Whilst we travel, I'll explain the basics."

"The basics?" Steve rose an eyebrow. "Basics doesn't exactly qualify here."

"Yeah, well…" The Doctor winced guiltily. He shook off the thought, donned a broad smile, and said, "Anyway, first things first: hold on to something tightly." He dashed back over to the console of the Tardis, and grabbed hold of a hefty lever. He craned his neck back over towards Steve, who had a firm grip on the handrails. "You ready to see Peggy?"

Steve grinned; the Doctor took that as a yes. "Alright then," he yelled, and pulled heavily down upon the lever. "Geronimo!"


	2. Merlin

Rain drizzled from under the gloomy grey clouds unto the equally grey city of London, brightened only by pinpricks of blurred light from feeble streetlamps, illuminating the scope of the city like a blanket of low hanging stars. Taxis trundled along, petrol fumes scenting the air with its metallic stench, and the occasional large red bus painted a brief flash of colour before being engulfed by the dark of the late evening.

Westminster Bridge was empty of pedestrians – save for one, stood leaning over and peering down to the river Thames below, currently being peppered with raindrops. It was a man, thoroughly drenched to the skin, his dark hair plastered to his face and his old, scuffed shoes squelching. He sighed deeply, looking up to the skies, wishing for a time that he was no longer a part of…

The man glanced behind him, checking the road for any passing cars. When no headlamps glittered his way, he found himself climbing up onto the stone banister of the bridge, and sitting himself down, legs dangling over the edge. There was a great freedom in this movement; he no longer felt as chained up, sat here overlooking the river: he no longer felt as alone as he had come to be.

The urge to jump bubbled up inside him. It looked so refreshing, so cool in the waters below; one quick jump and he could be down there, not up here…

Reality, of course, returned to his mind. It was a stupid idea to jump. He'd die. Obviously. But as the rain pelted harder, and he took another glance up to the churning clouds above, he wondered whether such a concept was as bad as it seemed…

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

The man jolted, his heart pounding; he had very nearly slipped. After a brief glance down to the waters he'd been a second from having plunged into, he craned his neck over towards the stranger who'd appeared, apparently out of nowhere.

"What?"

"I wouldn't sit up there," the stranger clarified. This was also a man: clad in a dark tweed jacket and black trousers, and sporting a large mess of hair already wilting under the harsh winds and rain, he stepped closer.

"You almost knocked me over yourself," the man glared, annoyed by this unwanted company.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, well," the man retorted. "Just leave me alone, will you?"

"Why would I do that?"

The man held back a groan. "Because I'm not used to… other people. I just want to have some time to myself."

The stranger drew in a deep breath. "You know, I don't want to risk it." He strode over, and lent his arms over the stone banister beside where he was sat. "What's your name?"

The man gritted his teeth, but finally muttered, "Merlin."

"Nice to meet you Merlin. I'm the Doctor."

Merlin's shoulders sagged. "I don't need a Doctor."

"No, you misunderstand me," the Doctor said, with a small shake of his head. "I am _the_ Doctor. Although," he continued, glancing over towards Merlin, "I think you might need someone."

"And who's that," Merlin muttered irritably.

"Someone to talk to."

The sound of rain dancing around them grew in volume as the pair delved into silence.

"I can't," Merlin breathed finally. "It's… complicated."

"I'm alright with complicated," the Doctor grinned. "Try me."

"You really won't believe me," Merlin protested.

"Okay then," the Doctor said with a shrug. Merlin assumed that to be the end of that conversation; to his dismay, however, the strange man started, "If I said that I am alien, who can travel in time and space, and can change my face rather than die by means of a biological… thing, and has a time machine in the form of a 1960s English Police Box… would that make your story less complicated?"

Merlin snorted. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Well, you want me to believe your story," the Doctor pointed out.

"No, I don't. You just want me to tell it to you."

"Look," the Doctor sighed, patting a hand upon Merlin's arm. "No – really: look." Merlin turned to face the Doctor. "I look up at you… and I see a wise, old man. I see the experience of, _hundreds_ , of painstaking years bearing a terrible weight on your shoulders. I see a time in your eyes from long ago, back when you were young, really young, and I can sense the urge to want to be able to take yourself back there. I can see a face younger than the mind it bears within, and I can see the sorrow and loss you have suffered." The Doctor broke off, shaking his head sadly. "Sorry," he muttered.

Merlin stared at the Doctor, completely dumbstruck – not only because those words had hit home, but also because he was certain that the Doctor knew that was exactly what Merlin could see as he'd looked down at him.

The Doctor looked back up again, this time a grin stretching his expression. "Anyway, that wasn't my reason of visiting."

"It… wasn't?" Merlin faltered. "Wait… you were looking for me?"

"Not exactly looking, per se; I just, sort of, arrived." The Doctor pushed away from the edge of the bridge, and Merlin – overwhelmed with a curiosity that hadn't sparked within him in _years_ – jumped to the ground from the banister and followed after him. "You see," the Doctor continued, "I've got something in mind for you that you might be interested in."

"What would that be?"

"Another chance of living as you once did," the Doctor announced.

Merlin fell back considerably, a gnawing sadness taking reign of his thoughts.

The Doctor turned back in surprise. "What is it?"

"That's not possible," Merlin muttered.

"No, wait until you see-"

"Listen!" Merlin's heart ached to have to relive those memories he had long ago buried deep in the darkest realms of his mind. A desperate longing stung at his eyes, but he ignored it, and swallowed down his grief. "Back then… all those years ago… I lost the closest friend I have ever had. The most important person, in the whole world, to me. I lost everyone," he mumbled, his voice practically lost in the open air the moment the words left his lips. "I can't go back, because I'll still be… alone."

The Doctor smiled sadly. "Hey, you didn't think that was my plan, did you?"

Merlin frowned. "What, do you mean?"

"Well: with the power of time on my side, I was thinking of… well, changing things around a little. Of course, it's pretty risky… but it's worth a shot, eh?"

"So…" Merlin's expression brightened hopefully. "You can take me there… and everyone else will be there too? Gwen? Gaius? Arth-" he broke off suddenly, his head bowing.

"I'll make sure everyone is there," the Doctor assured. "I promise." He stepped back over to Merlin, and placed his hands to Merlin's shoulders in encouragement. "I once had someone too, like Arthur," the Doctor nodded understandably. Merlin's heart ground to a halt at the name, and his eyes stung again. "The difference being, I can help you save him and bring him back."

Tears intermingled with the rain down Merlin's face, and he laughed for what felt like the first time in hundreds of years. He was going to see Arthur again. _Alive_.

"Are you ready to go?"

Merlin nodded. As he followed after the Doctor, a thought came to mind. "Hey, wait a second," he said. "About your friend, too – is there anything I can do to help, in return?"

The Doctor faltered; he wrung his hands. "I'm afraid not. It's…" he give a wobbly smile. "Complicated."

"You can't travel back to them, then," Merlin suggested.

"If only it were that easy," the Doctor muttered. He shook his head, and brought a grin back to his face. "Thank you for the offer, Merlin, all the same."

"It only seemed fair," Merlin pointed out. They continued to walk. "Is there, _anything_ , I can do, as a repayment?"

"There is, actually," the Doctor said. "Make every day you have from now on, the best day of your life. Alright?" He grinned over at Merlin, who returned the gesture.

They made their way over towards a large box, hidden in shadow. "So that's the police box you mentioned," Merlin realised, as they neared it. He raised his brow. "It's not… the biggest, space ship that I had in mind."

"Ah," the Doctor proclaimed triumphantly. "Well, we'll see about that." He moved to the door, and unlocked it with a key (a rather primitive method for a time and space machine, Merlin thought – but, then again, where they were about to travel to, 'primitive' wasn't exactly the right word). With a push of the door, the Doctor pocketed the key, as a chink of light from within the box widened, falling at Merlin's feet. Blinking, he peered inside.

"What do you think now," the Doctor asked, folding his arms.

Merlin smirked over at him. "Magic," he said.


	3. John Watson

**Obviously this is set in an Alternate Universe, in which John is given some evidence to prove his thoughts right, in that Sherlock (spoiler alert right here) isn't dead. I wasn't overly sure how to write this one... but I got there in the end.**

 **(Can't wait for Sherlock Series 4!)**

* * *

The bitter winds snaked their way around the gravestones, whistling over the ground as though attempting to summon the dead back up to life through its roaring. Or perhaps it was the white noise drifting through the mind of the only living occupant of which made the blustering, British chill seem so loud to him.

Hands in the pockets of his thick jacket, John Watson stood opposite a fresh, ebony marble gravestone. Every day he stood in front of the same grave. (He half wondered whether his boots would begin to leave a permanent imprint.) Every day he would come, and he would simply stand there in silence – but it was this silence that had become the loudest part of his day.

Sometimes he just wished that the next time he would come to this spot, he'd read the words etched on the clean stone, and it would sink in. He would read it and give a mournful nod, but it would finally be a string of words that he could read with an understanding; that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Most days, however, he hoped that when he made his way over, the grave wouldn't be there in the first place.

It still didn't make any sense to him. Sherlock Holmes, dead. How could he be dead? How could people believe it? It still didn't add up: something was missing. But he couldn't exactly ask Sherlock to solve this for him. The detective was a little too occupied, what with being buried deep in the soil under John's feet.

John shook his head, every inch of movement a stab of denial, and drew in a deep breath. "You can't…" John broke off. _Breathe_ , he reminded himself. He sighed and took another, albeit shaky, breath.

"You, can't… be dead, Sherlock." His eyes ran over the silver indents of his name across the stone, and he glared at them. "You're not dead. You can't be."

His eyes misted over, prickling with sorrow, but John didn't care; he would shout to the world if he had to, tell them that Sherlock Holmes _had_ to be alive.

A twig snapped under a hesitant footfall from behind. John started – but he kept his eyes glued to the gravestone at his feet, not daring to turn away from it.

"Sorry for intruding," a voice said from behind.

"No… no," John swallowed. Why was it so hard to talk to people? Why did it have to take the most of his strength to formulate words, sentences? "Don't worry, you're – you're not intruding," he muttered.

Footsteps made their way closer towards him, but John didn't overly mind. It was a distraction; a break from the overbearing silence.

"The worst pain in the world is losing someone close to you," the voice said softly. John nodded, concentrating on breathing more than anything else. "I wish I had some way of relieving it from you, if that were possible."

John stared blankly over at the grave, the silver of the words winking back at him. "Me too," he mumbled quietly.

"No – really," the voice continued, a twinge of regret laced in their voice. "Usually… I can help, in some way, I these situations, but… well…"

John frowned, and inclined his gaze to where the voice was coming from.

There stood a man, considerably younger than he was, with his eyes on the ground. His tweed jacket creased under his folded arms, and a mop of dark hair swept over his forehead and hung from his scalp, the ends of his hair also pointing to the grass at his feet. The man looked up, and John was met with eyes that seemed to startle him, because they reminded him of the eyes of his friend. Sherlock Holmes. They were dark and shadowed, but they had that same glint of wisdom and a weight of knowledge that had rested in the eyes of the once detective. John also noted, which some confusion at the scene behind the man, that he was sure that all the times he'd walked through the graveyard, that there hadn't been a large, blue police box from the 1960s standing at the entrance gate.

"I saw Sherlock, a while back – actually, not quite so, from your point of view… he wanted to come with me, but I had to turn him down."

John's brow furrowed further still. "What are you talking about?"

"He wanted to see you," the man explained, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. "The laws of time and such, given the circumstances; I couldn't really ignore this one."

John felt the inclination to walk away, but there was just something oddly familiar about this man that kept his feet glued to the ground.

The man put a hand within the inner realms of his jacket pocket, and retrieved (eventually) an envelope. "This was the best I could do," he admitted, handing it over to John.

John blinked at it, and looked quizzically over towards the stranger. "And… what is this, exactly?"

"An envelope," the man grinned. His expression fell hastily at John's glare. "A letter. From Sherlock."

John hesitated. "Why couldn't he give it to me, before…" he tried to finish the sentence, but found that his throat closed up and he lost his voice completely.

"Oh, he didn't write this in the past," the man dismissed casually. He pressed the envelope into John's hand. "Make sure to read it carefully; this is a detective who wrote it, after all."

At this, the man turned and left without another word, leaving John dumbstruck. He glanced down to the envelope, and looked back up to question the man – but the stranger had disappeared.

John frowned, and looked once more down to the envelope, shaking in his grip. He tore it open, curiosity fuelling his every move, and pulled out a letter.

He immediately recognised the handwriting.

'J.W,

It is to my understanding that you w **i** ll have no reason to trust this letter, nor the person of whom pl **a** ced it into your possession. Nevertheless, he (the stranger in question) visited upon **m** e only this mor **n** ing, and insisted that I write to y **o** u. Of course, I found the whole **t** hing rather preposterous, but after a thorough explanation from him (and some evi **d** ence so as to prove this stranger's words as tru **e** ), I decided that I would do as he **a** sked, as he explaine **d** that it would be of some comfort to you **.**

One thing he did warn me, John, was that when we next meet, you are not under any circumstance **s** allowed to discuss this letter with me.

To c **o** nclude, I must simply wish you well, and offe **r** my congratulations fo **r** what is to come for **y** ou in the near future **.**

S.H.

[P.S., I must remind you of the point I often make to you, in that you see, but you do not observe. Perhaps you should try the latter of which when reading this letter.]'

John read through it several times. The first time, a flame of hope burst in his mind, to be snuffed out with quick denial the second read through. It took him a few readings later, with a frown darkening the lines on his face, to remember what the stranger had said to him: 'Make sure to read it carefully; this is a detective who wrote it, after all.' What did being a detective have to do with the matter? And how did it link with (supposedly) Sherlock's advice to 'observe'?

It took him only one more scan through for it to suddenly make sense. He smiled, an expression that hadn't lit his face in months, and began his trek home, oblivious to the disappearance of the blue police box.

As he exited the grave, his smile suddenly dropped, and his brow furrowed in annoyance. He turned back to the graveyard, narrowed his eyes at it, and then shook his head.

"Damn you, Sherlock."


End file.
